The next morning we boarded two buses again and were taken back to the airport and divided into groups. Jorge Maldonado was there and explained that the trip to the jungle would be in small prop planes. He was standing near two men in army uniforms, one young, not much older than I, and one considerably older. Jorge told us that all Vespugians must serve two years in the army, and these two soldiers would be with us as our guides on the trip to the pyramids. He introduced them, Captain Nausinio, the older one, and Second Lieutenant Esteban Manuel, the younger one.
Esteban! That was the name of Adam's guide to the pyramids. He was nice-looking, with soft, curly black hair, bright blue eyes, and fair skin.
“Esteban's forebears came to Vespugia from Wales.” Jorge smiled. “Which accounts for the dark hair and blue eyes. He is a musician and will be playing the oboe in the San Sebastián Symphony once his term in the army is over. He is very talented.”
While we were waiting to board the planes, I went up to Esteban. “Hi. I'm Vicky Austin. I think you know my friend Adam Eddington.”
Esteban frowned and held out his hands helplessly, and I realized he didn't speak any English, and, unlike Adam, I didn't speak Spanish. Jorge, carrying his camera cases, came over and I explained, so Jorge told Esteban what I was trying to say, and Esteban beamed and shook my hand and poured a torrent of enthusiastic words over me, and I couldn't understand him any more than he'd understood me. Jorge laughed and said that Esteban was delighted to meet his friend Adam's friend. Then Jorge asked me, “Your friend's name is Adam Eddington?”
“Yes.”
“Is he perhaps related to the well-known explorer?”
I hadn't realized Adam II was well known. “His nephew.”
“Tragic, his uncle's death. You knew him?” I shook my head. “Ah, true, his death was a good many years ago. He was a remarkable man, remarkable.”
We were called to board then, and Cook and I were on the third plane. As it left the runway on takeoff, it bumped into the air so wildly that I reached out and grabbed Cook's hand, and he held mine, firmly, for the entire flight, which took about half an hour.
When we got out of the plane, climbing down some portable steps, we saw the battered bodies of two dead-looking planes.
“Oh, my word,” somebody expostulated. “Look at these planes that didn't make it. I wish we could walk back to San Sebastián.”
I looked around. The landing strip was not very big, and jungle was pressing in on all sides. A jeep-type car bounced to a stop near one of the planes, and Jorge ran to meet two children who jumped all over him, hugging and shouting. He put his arms around them, asking Captain Nausinio to help him with his camera equipment. It was stowed carefully in the back of the car by Captain Nausinio and Jorge's wife, who had black hair hanging down her back in a thick braid, which I was beginning to think of as the Vespugian way of wearing hair.
Siri had walked over and was standing near me. “Beautiful, isn't she?”
“Gorgeous.” Mrs. Maldonado got in the jeep and they bounced off, and Captain Nausinio and the rest of us followed along a narrow path that cut through thick bushes, with overhanging trees.
Captain Nausinio talked as we walked, pointing as he spoke, and I couldn't understand a word he said. Finally Cook told him to speak Spanish, and he'd translate.
“Yay, thanks, Cookie!” Sam exclaimed.
Someone else said, “I thought I could understand Spanish reasonably well, but the Vespugian accent is beyond me. Thank goodness for you, Cookie.”
It was a ten-minute walk to a clearing in the jungle where suddenly, as we left the trees behind us, we saw the pyramids. Here, in the middle of nowhere, were great stone edifices even larger than the pictures in Aunt Serena's photo album had indicated. The largest one was a massive series of steps rising up at least ten stories. The photographs hadn't conveyed their majesty, or how amazing it was in the middle of
the Vespugian jungle to see signs of what obviously had been a sophisticated culture.
Esteban spoke to Cook, who told us that the pyramids were estimated to be about three thousand years old, and very little was known about the civilization that built them.
I wondered what would be known about our civilization in three thousand years. I looked around at us all, the women mostly in cotton dresses or pants, many of the men in shorts and T-shirts. By contrast, Captain Nausinio and Esteban were sweltering in their uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders. Esteban's fair skin was pale, and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip. As well as his rifle, he carried something in a long, black leather case. Another gun? Or maybe it was his oboe.
Esteban, with Cook translating, told us that the pyramids had been discovered by the early Spanish explorers, in the sixteenth century. The monks thought it was a pagan place and smashed many of the stones and statues.
I looked around and saw fragments of stone all around, and on some of the carvings the faces had been mutilated. I suddenly understood the word “defaced.”
Cook translated in an emotionless voice, and I wondered what he thought of monks mutilating anything they thought represented a religion different from theirs. But he continued translating for Esteban without changing expression. “The monks, Esteban says, felt that the pyramids were sacrilegious, and after they had done their damage they went away and the jungle took over again, completely. The pyramids weren't rediscovered until the nineteen-sixties. The largest has four staircases of ninety steps each, adding up to three hundred
and sixty days, which was their calendar year, so whoever built the pyramids was mathematically and astronomically literate.” He listened to Esteban and told us that if we had the energy for the climb, there would be a beautiful view from the top.
“Come on!” Sam called to me, and started to climb. If Sam could do it, so could I, and when he stopped to rest I paused with him. We were both streaming with sweat. The thought that we'd be seeing icebergs in a few days was incredible. The sun was searing, hotter than it ever gets at home, and the insects were finding me delicious. Sam said, “They ignore me, I'm so old and stringy. And my cigar is protection.” It was clamped in his mouth, slightly chomped on, and, as usual, it wasn't lit.
I had my backpack on, so I'd have my hands free for climbing. Most of the others were climbing, too, and there was lots of complaining about the bugs, and people who'd thought to bring bug repellent were passing it around. The two soldiers were also climbing, their rifles banging against their sides. Esteban kept glancing at me, but did not say anything. It was the first time I'd encountered this kind of language barrier that kept us from speaking to each other without an interpreter.
When we arrived at the top, the view was indeed spectacular. We could see other pyramids, and many smaller buildings spreading out in all directions, until the jungle took over. Sam told me that there was still excavation going on. At least there had been under the old president, El Zarco, but General Guedder was not putting money into archaeology.
Having given me this information, through huffs and puffs, Sam lowered himself onto one of the high steps to either side of the shallower ones we'd climbed. I sat down by him. What a great guy! I was pretty much out of breath myself. My shoulders were itching, so I slipped off my backpack and put it in my lap. Sam was still breathing heavily, and I wanted to give him time to catch his breath, so I reached in my backpack and pulled out Adam's letter about the pyramids. I was reading intently and didn't realize that the two soldiers were near us until I heard the older one snap out some kind of order, and suddenly Esteban turned to me, speaking urgently. I couldn't understand a word. He kept pointing at Adam's letter and then at himself. Finally he touched the letter, tugging it gently.
My fingers tightened on the page. “Hey, that's mine!”
Why would he want a letter he obviously couldn't read?
He spoke incomprehensibly to me again, then reached for the letter, and suddenly I felt myself falling, losing my balance, and pitching backward off the steps.
Sam yelled.
And then I was grabbed, shoved, and I fell on one of the wide steps, trembling. Esteban stood by me, and he was trembling, too, and gabbling in Spanish.
Sam said, “Quick work, lad!” Then he asked me, “What happened?”
“I don't know.” I was pretty sure I had been pushed. Not by Esteban, who was standing below me, but by the older soldier; I couldn't be sure, and it was a terrible accusation. Why would anyone want to push me?
Esteban's skin looked grey, and his blue eyes were dark with horror. Captain Nausinio scowled. People crowded around.
Cook was coming up the last of the steps. “What's the matter?”
Sam said, “Vicky started to fall. This young lad, here”âhe indicated Estebanâ“managed to catch her.”
My heart was pounding with fear and relief. I said, “I was looking at a letter from Adamâit was in my backpackâI think Esteban wanted to see itâ”
Captain Nausinio spoke to Cook.
Cook said, his voice level, “Captain Nausinio tells me his young colleague collects postcards from America. It was a postcard he was hoping for, not the letter.”
Had the postcards even been visible? I hadn't pulled them out.
Cook and the soldier talked again, while Esteban hung back, and finally Cook said, “They are terribly sorry there was nearly an accident, Vicky. Lieutenant Esteban is apologizing profusely, and hopes you will forgive him.”
“But he's the one who saved me!”
Sam stood up and stretched and yawned. “All's well that ends well.”
Shakespeare again. My teacher said that Shakespeare and the King James translation of Scripture have permeated our language and our very being.
“Going down is going to be even worse than climbing up,” Sam said. “I'm doing it backward, Vicky, and I think you'll find that easiest, too.”
I grunted and started down beside him. When we'd gone about halfway, he stopped and asked, “What was that about?”
I stopped, too. “What?”
“The way you nearly fell. I wasn't looking at you, butâ”
“But?” I really wanted to know what Sam's “but” was about.
“You don't strike me as the kind of kid who'd be careless of your own safety.”
“I don't think I am.”
“Vicky, I do not think that handsome young soldier collects postcards. My Spanish is just adequate enough so I could hear the older man telling him to take something from you.”
“Why on earthâ”
Sam shrugged. “I don't like it.”
I didn't either. “No. But Cookie said they were sorry ⦔
“I'm glad you're with Cookie,” Sam said. “I think you should talk to him about this.”
S
tay awake, Vicky. Stay awake.
I moved slightly away from the tall tower of ice against which I was leaning, and swayed on my feet. Even with my eyes wide open, my mind seemed to slide the way it does just before you go to sleep, when you're not actually dreaming but you aren't thinking ordinary, rational thoughts, either.
Actions have consequences. But what had I done that would lead me to an iceberg in Antarctica? Times and places slid in and out, maybe the way they did for Aunt Serena when she was tired. The seal said that the past and present converged inâ
I jerked awake. The seal was still off, fishing. If I lay down and slept, I would die. As long as I stayed awake, there was a possibility I would be rescued. I'd put my family through enough grief, and as for Aunt Serena, she'd given me the tickets to Antarctica, the trip was her gift to me, and if anything happened to me, sheâ
She'd had enough grief. I couldn't add to it. I shaded my eyes and scanned the horizon, keeping up hope.
Â
When we reached the ground Captain Nausinio came up to us, lugging a case of Coke, which Cook and Sam and I helped him pass around, and we all drank thirstily. Then we were handed cardboard boxes with sandwiches and an orange, and Cook said the sandwiches had been prepared by the hotel and were okay to eat, and of course the orange could be peeled. Esteban and Captain Nausinio stood near us, looking hungry. Although they had carried the lunches to the pyramids, they evidently weren't on the list for lunches, only the tourists were.
Esteban spoke to Cook, who then told us that the people who built these pyramids had not discovered the wheel. He spoke again, and Cook translated. “It seems they were fairly advanced mathematicians. Esteban is very interested in this culture.”
Esteban then pointed to some stone slabs, which Cook said were stelae, carved with pictures of men and women in elaborate headdresses. When Esteban had finished giving Cook his information, he squatted down near me.
Captain Nausinio came up to us, barked out something, and Esteban turned to Cook, who explained that Captain Nausinio was going to lead the way to a sort of outhouse, and if anyone wanted to follow him, the privy was only a few hundred yards away. A few people got up and went after him. Esteban watched until the group had turned a corner past one of the smaller pyramids. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a postcard and handed it to me, a rather crumpled
one of the largest of the pyramids, the one we had climbed. I thanked him and because he still looked very hungry I gave him half my sandwich. He smiled, and his cheeks were pink. I wished I could speak Spanish so I could ask him why he'd wanted my letter from Adam. I looked at Esteban's friendly face, and none of it made sense.
Then Esteban reached for his black case and carefully pulled out his oboe. So I had been right, and it was not another gun. He put it to his mouth to wet the reed, then began to playâa soft, haunting melody.
Not at all to my surprise, Siri came hurrying over to us and knelt on the rough grass, listening intently. When Esteban had put down his oboe, she asked, “Rodrigo?”
He shook his head. “Juan Ormondan. Vespugian. Ours.”
“That was a lovely piece.” Siri clapped her hands in applause to explain her words. Then, in Spanish, “
Más, por favor
.”
Esteban lifted the oboe and began to play a strange, minor melody, not quite our own scale. I watched his face, fascinated by his dark hair and immense blue eyes. He put his oboe down as Captain Nausinio and the others returned, and we were called to get back on the planes. As we walked across the rough grass, Siri said, “He's a real musician, that young soldier. I wish we could hear him play more.”
Sam nodded. “He's okay, that kid. He was doing his best to apologize for whatever it was that happened up on the pyramid. Playing his oboe for you was the only gift he knew how to give you.”
“It was wonderful,” I said.
Siri suddenly shivered. “The music was superb, and the
pyramids phenomenal, but there's a feel to this place, something unsettling. I can't put my finger on it, but I'm glad we're leaving.”
A lot of people were audibly upset about getting back in planes which really appeared unsafe, but our plane, at least, took off smoothly, and there was no turbulence in the air.
Â
I sat next to Cook, who asked, “Are you okay, Vicky?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“How did you happen to fall?”
“It didn't just happen. I think somebody pushed me.”
“By mistake?”
“I don't know.”
He took quite a while before replying, “It was crowded on those narrow steps at the top. Someone could easily have bumped into you, inadvertently.”
I shook my head. “It was all part of Esteban's wanting the letter. It scared me.”
Cook sighed. “Yes, Vicky, I'm sure it did. Let it go, if you can.”
My backpack was shoved under the seat in front of me. I pulled it out, put it on my lap, reached in, got the two warning cards from my locker at school, and handed them to Cook.
He looked at them, turning them over, reading and rereading the messages, then asked sharply, “Where did these come from?”
“They were stuck in the door of my school locker.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.” In showing Cook those cards, I'd committed myself.
I reached into the backpack again and got Adam II's unfinished letter, but I didn't hand it to him directly. I said, “Cookie, remember I gave you an air letter addressed to you, one I found up in the attic? An old one that had never been mailed?”
Cook was always quiet, but an added stillness seemed to fill him. He turned slowly to look at me.
I gave him Adam II's unfinished letter. “Did it have anything to do with this?”
He read, slowly. His hand shook, slightly. “Miss Vicky.” Then, “Vicky, this is old trouble. It was long ago. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Somebody doesn't want me to know about it. Or tell anybody about it.”
“Who?”
I could not tell him John's suspicion. “That's the question, isn't it?”
He put the letter down on his lap. “This all happenedâbefore you were born.”
I asked, “Did Adam II's letterâthe one I gave youâdid it maybe make you feel he might not have been killed if you had been there?”
“Of course. But that is a foolish way of thinking. We can't rewrite the past. What happened, happened.”
He had answered the question I had not actually asked. “But you think he was killed.”
“It is hard to avoid that conclusion.”
“What happened?”
“Adam got word to Washington and to the UN that Guedder and his son were planning to use heavy explosives on the
Antarctic continent to try to see what was beneath the ice cap. Once the plans were made public, it was possible to stop them.”
“And so they killed Adam?”
“We do not know.”
“It would stop him from spying on them, finding out what their other plans were, wouldn't it?”
“It is possible.”
“How much does Aunt Serena know?”
“She knows what there is to know. Those of us who loved Adam wanted him avenged, but there were no facts, nothing to go on. Madam said that some judgments are best left to God. And that is where this should be left. It was long ago. It has nothing to do with you. Nothing.”
“What about those cards in my locker?”
“They must be part of some practical joke.”
“Why?”
“There's no other explanation.”
“I wrote Adam about them,” I said. “And about Adam II's journal and letters.”
He looked troubled. “Perhaps it would have been better if ⦔ His voice trailed off.
“Cookieâif somebody pushed meâ”
“There's no reason. No reason you should be a threat to anybody.”
“But if they're planning something newâ”
“It still has nothing to do with you.”
“I could tell people.”
“It's far-fetched.”
“Is it?”
“Did you show this letter to anybody?”
“John. He didn't say anything. He promised. John keeps his promises.”
Cook handed me back the cards and the letter. “Don't show these to anybody.”
“Of course not.”
“We'll be out of Vespugia tomorrow. By late afternoon you'll be on the
Argosy
, and you'll be safe there, no matter what this is about.”
“You do think it's about something?”
“I don't know.” His voice was low.
I put everything in my backpack. I had not told Cook about the tiny piece of Scotch tape I'd put on my suitcase zipper which had vanished. But that could well have been my imagination. The Scotch tape could easily have dropped off by itself in that steamy weather.
But. But. I turned to him. “Esteban did want Adam's letter. And what about Adam's weird postcards? They were warnings, weren't they?”
“It would seem so. I'll be glad when we're on the ship. I want you out of this, whatever it is.”
I reached for his hand again, and he clasped his fingers around mine, reassuringly.
But he was worried. He took what I said seriously. As Adam had written, there was something rotten in the state of Denmark, something miching mallecho, but I had no idea what.
Â
We landed bumpily but safely. In the bus on the drive to the hotel we were told to put our bags outside our doors when
we went to bed, and we'd see them again when we boarded the
Argosy
.
I took a swim to cool off before dinner. There were only a couple of other people in the pool, so I swam laps, not pushing, just swimming back and forth, back and forth, enjoying the water. I used to think that the farther south anyone traveled, the hotter it would be, but I forgot that once you crossed the equator and headed down, you'd be aiming for the South Pole. Antarctica is the southernmost part of the planet. Bitter cold.
My rather chaotic thoughts were broken by the sensation that someone was swimming beside me.
Esteban.
He beamed at me. His hair was wet and slicked back, showing the modeling of his face, which reminded me of pictures of Greek statues. Obviously, Esteban wasn't Greek; he was descended from the Welsh colonists. Still, there was something classical about his looks, and his eyes were bluer than the sky.
“Vickee?”
I stopped my stroke and dog-paddled until he came up to me. He frowned, as though troubled, and said, “Ad-am?”
“What about Adam?” I looked at him questioningly.
He frowned again, frustrated by our inability to communicate. “Ad-am
amigo
?”
Amigo
. That means friend. I nodded vigorously. “Good friend. Good
amigo
.”
We were face-to-face, paddling in the warm water. “Adam
amigo
âGuedder
amigo
âGuedderâ” He said something that sounded like “virtue,” and “honor,” but I didn't quite get the
words, and I didn't know much about Guedder, one way or another, though my conditioned reflexes make me suspicious of dictators.
He spoke again, and I caught “Vespugia” and “Guedder,” and I think he was praising the General. I nodded, vaguely. Conversation between Esteban and me could not get very far. Then I looked around and Siri was standing at the side of the pool, wearing a sundress and sandals. “Will you and Esteban join me for a Coke?”
Coke is evidently an international word. “
SÃ, sÃ
.” Esteban beamed.
“Sure,” I called. “Love to.” I was thirsty from the heat, and it was hard not to be able to turn on the tap in our room and drink the water.
As we turned to swim to the shallow end of the pool, Esteban stopped me, looking at me with an expression of distress. Spoke. I was sure it was some kind of apology. For what had happened on the pyramid? Did Esteban, or Captain Nausinio, know that the letter I was reading was from Adam? Even if they did, why would they want it? As Cook had said, Adam II's death was long ago. There was no connection between the two Adams.
We climbed out and joined Siri at an umbrellaed table. Esteban got me a towel. Our Cokes were brought. Conversation was pretty much zilch; Siri spoke a few words of Spanish, but she certainly wasn't fluent. Esteban wanted to talk, but though he waved his hands a lot, I had no idea what he was trying to say, and neither did Siri. We all laughed, and it was pleasant to sit there and let the light breeze dry us off.